It was still raining outside. Banks knocked on the door, but got no answer. Hardly surprising, as he supposed nobody could hear him over the music. The windows were all open and the angry heavy-metal rap spilled out into the street, someone bragging about raping a bitch and offing a pig.
Banks tried the front door. It was open. He found himself in a small hallway, where the stairs led up to the bedrooms. The wallpaper was peeling and something that looked like a sleeping bag lay on the staircase. Banks nudged it with his foot. It was empty.
He didn’t like just walking in unannounced, but it seemed the only option. He called out a few times while he stood still in the hallway but he could hardly even hear his own shouts.
Finally, he went through into the living room. Now he knew why they kept the windows open; the smell was overwhelming. It was a mixture of things – human smells, definitely, such as sweat and urine, but also rotten vegetables, burnt plastic and marijuana. There were piles of old newspapers and other rubbish on the floor and it looked as though a dog had chewed up the furniture, though there wasn’t one in evidence. Thankful for small mercies, Banks thought; they probably had a pit bull. Three people were slumped on sofas and armchairs, and one of them stood up when Banks walked in.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ he shouted.
‘I’m not a lip-reader,’ Banks said, stepping over to the mound of stereo equipment and turning the volume down. ‘That’s better.’
It was the man of the house – Fred West to a T, eyebrows and all. The woman Banks assumed was his wife watched from one of the chairs. A girl Banks guessed to be about thirteen or fourteen sat in the other chair staring blankly at him.
The man squared up to Banks and gestured to the door with his thumb. ‘Right, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m done being polite. On your bike.’
‘I came to ask you to turn down the music,’ Banks said. ‘We can hardly hear ourselves think next door.’
‘What’s it to you? You’re not from around here.’
‘I was here a long time before you came on the scene. I grew up here. It’s my parents’ house and today’s their wedding anniversary.’
‘Well, bully for you. Sorry we forgot to buy them a present. Now just fuck off before I do you some real damage.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Banks, slipping his warrant card out. ‘I’m a police officer and I’m asking you nicely to keep the noise down.’
The man actually leaned forward and scrutinized the card. ‘North Yorkshire!’ he said. ‘You’ve got no powers down here. You’re out of your jurisdiction, mate.’
‘Big word that. I’m surprised you didn’t choke on it.’
‘I’m not scared of you. Now fuck off!’
‘You should be,’ said Banks.
The man walked over to the stereo and cranked up the volume again. The girl and the woman hadn’t moved. They were just watching. Banks guessed they were stoned on something or other. He thought he could see a crack pipe half-hidden under a newspaper on the floor, but it wasn’t crack they were on. These two weren’t jerky or manic; they were practically comatose. Downers or smack, most likely.
With a sigh, Banks walked over to the stereo, picked up the CD player, ripped out the wires and dropped it on the floor. The music stopped. The women still didn’t move, but Fred came right at him. He was a couple of inches taller than Banks, and thickset, muscular in the upper body. But Banks had his wiry and deceptive strength and speed going for him. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it so that he soon had him on his knees, arm up his back, foot placed solidly on his left kidney. By exerting just a little more pressure on the arm, Banks could make the pain excruciating. Even more pressure and the arm would snap or the shoulder joint would pop. The women just looked on, goggle-eyed. They’d never seen anything like this before.
‘I’ll do you for this!’ the man yelled. ‘I’ll see you bloody locked up, copper or no. You’ve got no right going around destroying a man’s private property.’
‘Oh, give it a rest, Fred,’ said Banks. ‘It was probably nicked, anyway.’
‘My name’s Lenny. You’ve got the wrong bloke.’
‘My mistake. Sorry, Lenny. Are you listening?’
‘I’m still not scared of-’
Banks gave a little twist and Lenny screamed. Banks let him relax a moment and then repeated his question.
‘All right,’ said Lenny. ‘All right, I’m listening. Let go.’
Banks didn’t. ‘I’m sorry about your CD player,’ he said. ‘I’m a music lover, myself, so it hurt me almost as it hurt you. I’m sure it’ll be OK; it’s just had rather a nasty shock, that’s all. If it’s not, then I’m sure you’ll have no problem lifting another. But first I’d like a promise out of you.’
‘What promise?’
Banks gave another little twist. Lenny screamed, his face red with pain. The woman Banks assumed was his wife lit a cigarette and contemplated the scene before her with great interest, as if she was watching a television programme. The girl started buffing her nails. Banks listened in the silence after the CD player’s sudden demise, but he could hear no other sounds coming from anywhere in the house. A good sign. No ambush imminent.
‘I’d like you to promise me that you won’t ever, ever, play your music so loud again that it disturbs my mum and dad next door. Do you think you can do that, Lenny?’
‘It’s my house. I’ll do what I like in my own fucking house.’
Twist. Scream.
‘Lenny, you’re not listening. If you really mean what you just said, you ought to consider moving to a detached house, you know, miles away from your nearest neighbours. Besides, it’s not your house. It’s the council’s house. You just rent it.’
‘You’re a bastard, you are,’ Lenny said, gasping. ‘You’re worse than the fucking criminals you put away. Filth!’ He spat on the floor.
‘Yeah, yeah. It’s all been said before. But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about your promise.’
‘What promise? I haven’t made any fucking promise.’
‘But you’re going to, aren’t you?’
Lenny said nothing. The woman frowned as she looked at him. Banks could tell the suspense was killing her. Will he or won’t he? The young girl got up and made to leave the room.
‘Where are you going?’ Banks asked her.
‘Bog,’ she said, making a squatting gesture.
Banks was a little concerned that she might reappear with a weapon. ‘Hold on a minute, love,’ he said. ‘Wait till I’m finished here.’
‘I’ll piss myself.’
‘I said hold on. You’ll live with it.’
‘These are me new jeans.’
Banks turned back to Lenny. The girl slumped against the doorpost, legs crossed. Banks kept a close eye on her. She chewed on her lower lip and looked sulky.
‘Right, Lenny, the quicker you give me your promise, the quicker your lass here will get to go to the toilet.’
‘She’s not my lass. Let her piss herself. I don’t care. Won’t be the first time.’
Banks gave a harder twist and Lenny cursed. ‘What I want you to promise,’ Banks said slowly, ‘is that you won’t play your music so loud that it upsets my mum and dad, remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘And if you do,’ Banks said, ‘I’ll have the local drugs squad over here before you can flush a tab of E down the toilet. Is that clear?’
‘It’s clear.’
‘Is it a promise?’
‘I-’
Banks twisted again. ‘Is it a promise?’
‘All right, all right! Jesus Christ, yes, it’s a fucking promise!’
‘And if you do anything – anything at all – to harm or intimidate them in any way, I’ll consider that promise broken. And I deal with broken promises myself. North Yorkshire’s not that far away. Got it?’
‘Got it. Let me go.’
Banks let go and Lenny squirmed on the floor for a while, rubbing his arm and his shoulder before subsiding into his armchair and lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.